Prince and the Pauper

Hi all! This is my first contribution to this page, and my first real attempt at writing something like this! I went with a bit of a fantasy theme, with no idea how long it might be. This first part is light on smut, but part 2 will definitely get into it! Enjoy!

Nate can't help but gaze at Prince Kyan as he sleeps, the golden waves of his hair catching the faint morning light. The gentle rise and fall of his chest is a picture of calm, quite contrary to the rude awakening the servant was about to deliver. Only a few perks come from being a servant to the Prince one grew up with; small moments of friendly torture with no fear of reprimand are some. Another is doting on the man of his dreams every day. Shaking the growing smile from his face, Nate places the covered silver platter he'd brought into the room on a small table by the Prince's bed. He moves towards the heavy curtains holding the sun at bay, and with a flourish, he throws them open, sending blinding light into the bed chamber.

Prince Kyan groans softly, squinting against the sudden flood of morning sun. He rolls over in his bed, his scrunched-up face turned to Nate with irritation and grogginess. "Must you always be so enthusiastic in the morning, Nathaniel?" he mumbles, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Is it enthusiasm, my lord, or simply what's required to wake you?" He replies, a teasing if condescending smirk on his face.

Kyan sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the irritation on his face melting into a sleepy grin. "I suppose it is a bit of both," he says, stretching his arms. "Though I do appreciate your dedication, Nathaniel."

"Must you use my full name, my lord?" No one uses Nate's full name. Not his family. Not even the King and Queen, though it seemed to him that Prince Kyan did it on purpose sometimes.

"Must you call me 'my lord', Nathaniel?" Kyan cocks his head with a sly grin.

"Me calling you 'my lord' is proper etiquette; you calling me Nathaniel wastes two whole syllables. Besides, after today, it'll be Your Highness."

Kyan groans, "If you ever call me Your Highness, I will call you Nathaniel exclusively and forever. We have been friends for over a decade." Then he says, more quietly, "You, of all people, do not need to use titles with me."

"Perhaps, my lord. But it's more fun to bother you; it's one of the few joys of my day because I can get away with it." Nate turns away from the curtains, moves through the room under Kyan's stare, and collects the regalia the prince will need for the day ahead.

"I can arrange for those conditions to change if you so wish." Kyan moves to the edge of a bed far taller than could possibly be necessary, his legs hanging a few inches from the floor. He sighs, "Is anything urgent on the agenda today, or can I take my time waking up properly?"

Nate drops the heavy cloak he'd collected in his arms onto an ornate chair, throwing his hands onto his hips, "Prince Kyan, what day is it?"

The Prince's eyes go wide, "Uh...?"

"Your birthday, my lord. Your twenty-first birthday. The birthday when you are formally crowned heir to the throne. The day you are getting betrothed to Princess Galea of Khallessa." He says with an unyielding exasperation that wipes the smirk from Kyan's face.

"Oh, you can be such a humdrum, Nate. Could we not have pretended for just a moment longer?" Kyan rolls his eyes, falling back onto his bed with a loud sigh. Only a moment passes before he stands up, stretching his arms upward, his fingers grazing the canopy of his bed. His bedclothes lift above his waist, revealing a sliver of pale flesh that catches Nate's eye. He looks at Nate with a severe expression. "I just... wish things were different."

Nate sighs, letting go of the facade of austerity he'd put on now that Kyan is having a blooming existential crisis. Such events aren't unheard of, but today is heavy with responsibility, and Nate will somehow cop the blame from the monarchs if the Prince takes off without warning because of a panic attack. "Different, my lord?"

Kyan nods, his expression softening as he looks at Nate. "Yes, different. I wish... I had more control over my destiny. More say in what happens to me." He pauses, glancing out the window. "It's not that I am ungrateful. I understand the importance of my role and the value of my life. But sometimes, it feels like I am just a piece on a chessboard, moved around without a say."

"Oh, the woes of being rich and powerful," Nate says sarcastically.

Kyan's head snaps to look at him, eyes flashing in warning.

Nate sputters, "S- sorry, my lord." As much as Nate can joke with the Prince as an old friend, much of that changed when he was officially assigned to the prince's retinue. They were raised together, Nate's father being the King's First Hand. Then, once they both turned sixteen, Nate was formally made Kyan's First Hand. It's an honour amongst the lower classes, but sometimes Nate misses the feeling of being just friends, not master and servant.

Suddenly, Kyan bursts into laughter, a red flush filling his cheeks. "Oh, the woes indeed."

Moments like this have become increasingly infrequent with the pressing matters of age and growing responsibility. The Prince's betrothal today will only work to dissolve their already disintegrating friendship further, and Nate's been feeling the weight of this day looming over him for weeks. The Prince wants this betrothal for himself as much as Nate wants it for him, which is not at all, given it will change everything. Nate will not just be Kyan's First Hand, but hers too; everything that was just for Kyan and Nate will be shared with her. A stranger. Nate is particularly unkeen for the whole thing.

Prince Kyan smirks, shaking his head. His smile drops as he glances at the door, then back at Nate. "Well, since it is my big day, how about we start it right? First, we will have breakfast, and then we can face all the formalities."

Nate shrugs and walks to the table, revealing the platter of cheeses, eggs, various breads, and a selection of meats. "As always, I know you too well," He smiles.

Kyan grins at the display before him, "You organised this?" He asks, sitting at the table.

"I spoke with Mirabel about having something extra made for your birthday," Nate says as he places a cloth over Kyan's lap. Nate would never let him know that Mirabel nearly tore him a new asshole when he dared ask for a special breakfast when she had a whole feast to prepare and had instead been up since dawn doing it himself.

Kyan looks up at Nate with a sparkle in his eyes, "Thank you, Nate."

"Of course, my lord." Nate suppresses the grin that pulls at the blush on his cheeks.

"Gods, Nate. Shut up. Call me Kyan, or I will have you... I don't know, locked up or whipped or something. Sit down and eat with me." He takes a soft roll and tears into it with his teeth.

"Sounds more up your alley, my lord," Nate smirks at Kyan, whose chewing slows to a stop as his face flushes bright red.

Prince Kyan waves his bun in the air, mumbling through the mouth full of bread, a look of mortification on his face. He swallows hard and chases it quickly with a sip of juice. "Eat. As thanks."

"You know I can't... this food is not for us," Nate says, distinctly remembering his father scolding him for eating the 'food of the lords' long ago when the Prince made a similar offer.

Kyan scrunches his brow, tone firm but gentle. "Nate, how many times do I have to remind you? You are not just a servant to me. You never have been. Sit down and eat with me. This is my food, bed-chamber, and birthday; you are my best friend. That is an order."

Nate relaxes and chuckles, "So... I'm not just a servant... but you're giving me an order?"

Kyan laughs in return, "Touché." He gestures to the food, his expression softening. "Now shut up and eat something."

Nate sighs, sitting in the chair by the Prince. Beneath the table, Kyan's knee bumps gently into Nate's, a cheesy smile plastered across his face, but as they eat together, the smile wanes, and Nate shifts uncomfortably.

"As much as you loathe the prospect, my Prince... I'm proud to know you'll one day be my king." Nate says with conviction.

Kyan's teeth shine in the light from the window. "I like when you call me that... 'my Prince'," he says, seeming to savour the word 'my' as he repeats it back to Nate. He smiles warmly, resting his hand on Nate's forearm, "Your faith in me means more than you know." The Prince's hand lingers on Nate's arm, his touch warm and grounding. Nate's skin prickles where his fingers touch it, the weight of the moment unsettling in its intimacy. "I'll do my best to be a king worthy of you."

Nate's cheeks flush, crazed thoughts of the implications of you rushing through his head. He pulls his arm from the Prince's grasp, reaching for a goblet of wine as an excuse to pull away from the unexpected contact. "Of course you will," Nate says softly, then clears his throat, slipping back into formality. "Now, we should get you ready. Birthday or not, you'll be heir by the end of the day, and underclothes don't exactly scream 'future king.'"

Prince Kyan's smile turns down into a thin, pursed line. "Yes, of course." He stands and moves towards the open space before the massive mirror in the chamber, framed by various shelves and cabinets of lotions, scented oils, and tonics. He unties the lace on his bedclothes, pulling the shirt over his head and dropping his thin sleeping trousers to the floor.

Kyan stands before the mirror, stripped down to nothing. Loathe as he is to participate so regularly in training, he appreciates what it does to his body. As Nate approaches, his eyes are glued to the floor as they always are when Kyan is undressed. Kyan's never understood why, as if they hadn't spent so many summers swimming nude in rivers together. Nate looks up, and a smirk suddenly plays on Kyan's lips. If not today, then never, he thinks.

"You're taking your time, Nate. I might catch my death standing here like this," he says, his tone laced with mock seriousness.

"Hardly. You've survived far worse than a morning chill," Nate replies, pointing at the trousers he'd already laid out. He leaves Kyan to dress his bottom half. Kyan slips into the lined leather, lacing the front. Much to Kyan's disappointment, it was a task Nate had never done himself. Nate pulls an intricate, navy blue tunic laced with gold from the wardrobe.

Kyan leans in, the motion slow and deliberate as he slides his arms into the tunic Nate offers. "True. However, your lack of urgency wounds me deeply. Perhaps I should have requested Princess Galea to assist me instead."

The comment draws Nate's gaze sharply, his hands tightening around Kyan's shoulders as he straightens the tunic, the pressure of Nate's hands on his body making him weak in the knees. "I doubt her duties extend to this sort of thing," he says coolly.

Kyan turns towards Nate and tilts his head, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to join me for the coronation? You'd make a far more pleasant companion than Galea."

Nate exhales sharply, fingers working a little more roughly than necessary as he ties the laces running up Kyan's chest. "Flattery will not get you out of your obligations."

Kyan chuckles, low and warm, watching Nate flush, "It's not flattery. You're the only one who can keep me in line, after all."

"You say that as if it's an honour," Nate mutters, ducking his head to avoid Kyan's gaze.

"Isn't it?" Kyan murmurs, his voice dipping slightly. He watches Nate's eyes flare wide, his shoulders suddenly tense.

They stand impossibly close. Kyan grips Nate by both his arms. "You seem tense, Nate. Perhaps you have objections about my betrothal?"

Nate's hands falter mid-tie, and he looks up sharply. "I'm not the one being betrothed, my prince. I'm a servant. Why would I have objections?"

Kyan's smirk widens, his eyes gleaming; the sound of those words, 'my prince', tickling his stomach. "You tell me, my First Hand. Though I do wonder..." He leans in just enough for his breath to brush Nate's cheek. "... do you think she'll ever know me as well as you do?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded, as Nate's fingers tighten on the laces. "No one knows you better, my p-," he starts softly before stopping, stepping back abruptly to retrieve the next piece of clothing.

Kyan huffs and stands before the mirror as Nate sorts through various rings and necklaces. He rakes a hand through his tousled golden hair, letting it fall in perfect disarray.

"I've always hated this tunic," he says. "Far too stiff, don't you think?"

Nate approaches, a polished wooden tray in his hands, laden with a selection of rings, chains, and the ceremonial signet.

Nate stops beside him, setting the tray down on a low table. He grabs a heavy golden ring and holds it out, the gaudy, oversized sigil of Kyan's family.

Kyan doesn't move to take it, his gaze fixed on the mirror. "Do you ever wonder if all this pomp is worth it?" he asks, his tone too casual to be genuine.

Nate glances at him, frowning slightly. "I wouldn't dare question the traditions of the crown," he replies, though the edge of sarcasm in his voice makes Kyan smirk.

Kyan finally turns, holding out his hand for the ring. Nate takes his fingers delicately, sliding the band onto his finger. The feel of Nate's fingers lacing through his own to apply the ring loosens the tension in Kyan's shoulders. The touch lingers longer than necessary, Kyan refusing to pull away, and when Nate looks up, Kyan's eyes are already on him.

"Traditions of the crown," Kyan murmurs. "Always so proper. Always saying the right thing. Not usually when it's just us, though."

Nate clears his throat, quickly reaching for a delicate gold chain meant to sit just beneath Kyan's tunic. He steps back to fasten it around Kyan's neck, arms wrapped in almost an embrace.

Kyan's voice softens, almost teasing. "You're awfully quiet all of a sudden, Nate."

"And?" Nate asks, his hands steady as he clasps the chain, though he avoids meeting Kyan's gaze as it lingers on his face.

"Strange," Kyan continues, leaning further into Nate's space, barely inches apart. "You're usually full of opinions when I'm being insufferable. Yet here I am, dreading an entire day of pageantry, and you're saying nothing."

Nate steps back, shaking his head. "I didn't think you were in actual need of reminding of what today entails."

Kyan chuckles softly and turns to the mirror, his fingers brushing the chain as if testing its weight in inspection. "I suppose I am. But I wonder..." He turns again to face Nate fully, their bodies inches apart yet again. "...are you?"

Nate stiffens under Kyan's gaze, the question clearly catching him off guard. "Am I what?" he asks, his voice frustratingly neutral.

Kyan lifts a hand, reaching for the next piece of jewellery--a finely wrought bracelet. But instead of taking it, he holds it out toward Nate. "Go on," he says, his tone lighter now, though his eyes are sharp. "Put it on me."

Nate hesitates but takes the bracelet, moving to clasp it around Kyan's wrist. The prince tilts his head, watching him intently. "Are you nervous about today?" Kyan presses, his voice quieter now. "About what it means?"

Nate doesn't look up, focusing on the clasp. "It's not my place to be nervous, my lord," he replies evenly.

"Not your place," Kyan echoes, the faintest trace of frustration in his voice. He tilts his wrist up, forcing Nate to meet his eyes. "Nate, you've never cared for places or propriety before. Why now, why today?"

It was starting to bother Kyan. He started to worry he was making it all up: the tension, the intimacy of their friendship.

Nate swallows hard, but his hands remain steady. "Because it's important. Because you have a role to play, and so do I."

Kyan's lips twitch, caught between a smile and a frown. "You're always so careful with me," he says softly, his tone almost wistful. "Even now, when you're tying me up with chains and rings."

Nate freezes, his cheeks flushing as the words register. Kyan's smirk grows, his gaze flicking to Nate's hands, which still hover over his wrist. "Oh, come on," Kyan says, laughing lightly. "That was funny."

"You're impossible," Nate mutters, finishing the clasp and stepping back quickly, but not before Kyan catches his wrist.

"I'm serious," Kyan says, his grip firm but gentle. His voice lowers, suddenly intimate. "Today's the last day I have to ask. To know." If not today, then never.

"To know what?" Nate asks, his face suddenly unreadable.

Kyan hesitates for only a moment before stepping closer, his fingers still wrapped around Nate's wrist. "If I've always been alone in this," he murmurs. "Or if you feel it too."

The room falls silent, save for the faint rustling of fabric as Kyan releases Nate's wrist, letting his hand fall to his side. "You don't have to say anything," Kyan adds, his voice thick. "But if you don't, I won't ask again."

For a long, heavy moment, Nate just stares at Kyan, the prince's words settling like stones in his chest. Feel... what? Don't what? Say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? He swallows hard, his throat dry.

"My lord, this isn't--" he starts, his voice a shaky whisper, but Kyan moves closer, cutting off the words and wrapping his arm around Nate's waist.

"You never listen to me when I tell you to stop with the titles," Kyan says, his voice softer now, almost playful, though his eyes are anything but.

The air between them feels impossibly thin, and Nate's heart pounds in his ears as Kyan lifts his other hand, this time brushing his fingers against Nate's jaw. Nate freezes, the warmth of Kyan's touch stealing the breath from his lungs.

"I don't care about the titles," Kyan murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of Nate's cheek. "I don't care about propriety or duty or any of it. Not with you."

"My--Kyan," Nate corrects himself, his voice breaking on the word as blood rushes heavily into his cheeks. The name feels forbidden, like a secret he's only allowed to say when no one else can hear. "You can't--this isn't--" Nate pushes against him, trying to slither out of his embrace.

"Don't tell me what I can't do," Kyan interrupts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, though his arm trembles slightly where it rests against Nate's back. "Not today."

Nate's resolve crumbles like sand under the weight of Kyan's gaze. He takes a shaky step back, but Kyan follows, his movements slow and deliberate, like they'd started a waltz.

"This isn't fair," Nate whispers, his voice barely audible. His back suddenly presses against the edge of a table, and Kyan presses him into it.

"Maybe not," Kyan admits, his eyes flicking down to Nate's lips. "But neither is pretending I don't--" He stops himself, his breath hitching. "Neither is pretending you don't."

Before Nate can think to respond, Kyan leans in, his lips brushing against his in a touch so soft it feels like a question. Nate freezes for a heartbeat, and then, as if pulled by something more substantial than his own will, he kisses him back.

The first touch is tentative, hesitant, but Kyan's hand slides to the back of Nate's neck, pulling him closer. Kyan's tongue presents another question to Nate's lips he can't bring himself to leave unanswered

Nate's hands move on their own, gripping Kyan's waist, the silky fabric of his tunic bunching under his fingers. Kyan presses forward, his body fitting against Nate's in a way that feels both alien and heartbreakingly familiar.

Kyan breaks the kiss but his whole body stays pressed against Nate's. "You're trembling," Kyan murmurs against his lips, his voice low and rough.

"So are you," Nate manages, his words muffled as Kyan captures his mouth again, this time with more urgency.